


Button Up Your Overcoat

by anguis_1



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle VII, Season 7 (yeah--that one), h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anguis_1/pseuds/anguis_1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An impetuous request helps Bobby and Alex break down walls and rebuild fences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Button Up Your Overcoat

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: overcoat  
> The title comes from a song popularized by Helen Kane.

March blew in like a caged lion, blustery and roaring with impotent rage at the hunch-shouldered, bundled pedestrians slogging through the slush. Two NYPD detectives loitered in a blind alley, slouching amid piles of detritus in an attempt to stay out of the wind. Alex Eames sported a rather inadequate blue sweater, having drenched her jacket with coffee while averting a minor collision on the drive over. Her partner had chivalrously offered her his overcoat, but with the dark hollows beneath his eyes and the stark exhaustion that made his every gesture and expression seem a painful effort, she couldn't bring herself to accept. In his condition, he'd probably catch his death of cold, and that wasn't a burden she was willing to shoulder. However, after half an hour of evading his concerned glances and trying not to vibrate with shivers, she broke down with a reluctant compromise.

"You got room in there for me?"

Startled, Bobby stared down at his coat and muttered, "Not lately," but opened it just the same. She sidled up next to him and was enfolded in wool. It strained the fabric, but he managed to slip a few of the buttons through their holes, warning, "Don't get too restless, or you'll be resewing buttons on your lunch break."

Alex relaxed in the warm, Bobby-scented cocoon. It was a relief to forget for a few minutes that they were Goren and Eames, with more issues between them than TIME Magazine. Leaning against his towering frame with the comforting thud of his heart beneath her ear, she couldn't remember when she'd last felt this safe.

The coffee had soaked her gloves as well, so she had discarded them on the dashboard of the SUV. Her fingers were chilled and beginning to ache, and it was only logical that she do something to ward off chilblains. She wriggled them up under the arc of his paunch and tucked them behind his belt and nearly moaned at the heat radiating from beneath his smooth shirt.

"Eames," he hissed, glaring at the top of her head visible between his lapels and working his elegant hands in and out of fists at his sides.

Alex, however, was too preoccupied to notice. She felt something firm rising against her belly and couldn't resist what was, in retrospect, probably an injudicious quip.

"Is that your nightstick, or are you just happy to see me?"

"I don't . . . have a nightstick. Only beat cops carry them, and most are actually side-handled batons, although . . . oh, uh, s-sorry." Belatedly realizing her allusion, Bobby tried to shift away. She matched his faltering steps until his back collided with a brick wall. Undeterred, she extricated her right hand and settled it over his fly.

"You _are_ happy to see me!" She marveled at the unexpected thrill of pleasure that she had this effect on him (and that he hadn't bolted altogether). She traced his growing length, thumbnail scraping and catching on the fabric of his pants. Everything she'd ever known about _partnership_ and _rules_ and _allegiance_ had been forcibly evicted from her personal instruction manual when Bobby had barged into her work and her life. Why not this, too?

Suddenly, he lurched forward and pressed against her palm, nearly knocking her off-balance. She braced her feet and burrowed her face into his chest. A few fitful thrusts later, and he came with an inarticulate grunt and sagged against the wall, two bright patches of color illuminating his cheeks. His panting breaths curled opaque from between parted lips before swirling away with the bitter gusts of wind.

Alex peered up at him with a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary grin on her upturned face. "Long time?"

"Um . . . well, I, I haven't--" Mortification and incipient panic jumbled together in the creases and tics twitching across his face.

"It's okay." She hadn't meant it sarcastically, but maybe he'd felt the sharp edge of her tongue too much lately to take it any other way. She rubbed her damp palm against her thigh and then reached up to cradle his stubble-roughened cheek, trying to demonstrate what her reserved words never could quite express. He closed his eyes and leaned into the caress like an affection-starved cat. "You deserve--"

Whatever it was that she thought he deserved was interrupted by footfalls hurrying in the direction of their alley. Bobby shuffled them around so his back was to the street, and they held their breaths as the familiar, frustrated voice of Mike Logan called out, "A uniform collared Ramirez two blocks over trying to hold up a bodega with a paring knife. Let's get outta here." Logan's footsteps receded quickly, and Bobby hurriedly popped his buttons free to release Alex. She sprang away and headed towards the street, only to skid to a halt in a patch of unidentifiable slime at the sound of her name.

"Eames, I'm, um, I'm . . . wet."

And there it was--that plaintive timbre carefully crafted to elicit sympathy and maternal protectiveness. The impending train wreck had been averted, at least for the moment, and now _this_ was a game two could play. Alex smirked into her shoulder, then composed her expression and turned. "Yeah? So's my jacket. You'll dry." She continued out into the pale sunshine, resisting the urge to check that he was lumbering after her, got behind the wheel of the SUV parked down the street, and waited.

A minute later, Bobby eased into the passenger's seat, carefully parting his coat to keep from soiling it. Caught somewhere between bewilderment and chagrin, he protested, "I can't go back to 1PP like this!"

She relented, of course--though not without pretending to ignore his plea for several blocks--and let him off outside his apartment. He reappeared a few minutes later, freshly trousered and greatly relieved. With the memory of his arousal still weighing heavily in her hand, she could only manage oblique glances in his direction. It was enough to see the shy smile that crinkled around his eyes but never quite reached his lips, however, as he extended an invitation she hadn't heard in months.

"I think I'll make a pot of chili tonight. Nothing . . . special, but if you'd like, you're welcome to, to join me. If you're not already--" He jerked his shoulder and dipped his head, one hand reflexively rising to rub the back of his neck.

For a moment, Alex felt engulfed by a warmth that had nothing to do with the heater finally kicking in. They'd never be normal, but perhaps they would be alright.


End file.
